Mr Monk is in The Doghouse
by Victoria O
Summary: Mr. Monk takes the case when a woman calls about her showdog being "murdered". When further murders occur, Mr. Monk must go undercover as a handler to solve this case. Will he fit into the dog eat dog world of dog shows?
1. Chapter 1

The little Pekinese dog sat as still as he could while his owner showed him a specific hand signal. The small dog had learned to understand many of these signals, since while he was in the ring, his master Shelley couldn't command him with words. It was a rule of the competition.

She rewarded him with a simple brush of her hand over his furry head. It was enough for him. She then gave him a second signal, this one to streamline his body. He got up on all fours and extended his small tail. It was the stance he was to assume when the judges came around to him. They would part his lips to check his teeth and measure him every which way, and other unpleasant things. But he had to maintain his position throughout.

Because he was a purebred show dog. It was what he was put on the earth for. Shelley reached down and removed his leash from the collar, freeing him to roam around, strictly against the rules, even if they were 'backstage' so to speak.

The dog ran around enthusiastically, checking his surroundings, sniffing everything he could, but Shelley called him back before he could go too far. She had a bowl of kibble for him and he lowered his head to the bowl, crunching gratefully.

But suddenly, he wasn't so hungry anymore. He backed away from the bowl and his already poor vision of blues and yellows blurred and became indistinct. Suddenly he saw a vision of large tabby cats surrounding him. They had claws extended and were advancing towards him. He made a weak attempt at growling and his tiny feet got caught underneath him, bringing him the few inches to the ground.

The tabbies were instantly gone, as if they were never there in the first place. The dog could barely hear the voice of his master, calling his name, sounding frantic.

"Spanky!" her hands were on him, jostling his miniature body. But he was slipping away….

----------

"Mr. Monk, sit down! The commercial's almost over." Natalie Teeger instructed as the detective continued rearranging the pillows on his spot on the couch.

"One second." He muttered, wondering to himself whether he should get his level to check the cushions. He had a feeling they weren't parallel to the ground, and if that happened, then he'd have to recheck the foundation of the apartment and buy a new couch and…

"It's starting!" said Julie excitedly, bouncing a little on the couch and ruining Monk's work.

He sighed, "Might as well, now. You ruined it." He sat on the less-than parallel cushion.

On the television, a small spotted dog and its handler were jogging around in a circle and the crowd was cheering. The announcer was going on about the dog and its pedigree.

"I just love the Maltese." Said Julie, "They're just so cute. Don't you think?" she asked, turning to him.

"Not really. Its hair is all different colors. It's not—it's not the same."

"Do you think they'll say anything about the murder?" asked Natalie, turning up the volume with the remote.

Monk made a note to himself to buy a new remote—and possibly a new couch. He half-way listened to the show, but most of the dialogue was about the dogs running around the ring, getting checked by judges, sitting perfectly still. If they were like that, animals might actually be bearable. Trudy loved animals…

Monk's train of thought was interrupted by the sound of a microwave beeping, which was odd since he never used his microwave.

"Oh, the popcorn's ready!" said Natalie, standing up quickly and walking into the meticulously-arranged kitchen.

"P-popcorn? I didn't authorize any popcorn."

"It's okay, Mr. Monk, I won't spill." Julie promised.

"Yes. Yes, you will."

Natalie came back into the living room, a large glass bowl in her hands. Monk added _glass bowl_ to his list of things to get as she handed the popcorn to her sixteen-year-old daughter.

"Maybe they want to keep it quiet." She said, referring to the case. They had gotten a call earlier about a murder than had taken place at the Purina Dog Show. A lady named Shelley had called it in—she was one of the handlers. She said her best friend Spanky had been murdered. Monk remembered asking Natalie if Spanky was even a name. _Maybe it's a pet name for her boyfriend or something,_ she had said.

"Do you want to head over to the show?"

Monk hesitated. There would be a lot of dogs there. And he hated dogs, especially, out of the animals people considered pets. Fish were okay, they lived in a little bowl and if they did anything dirty, it was contained in their own bowl and you could throw the whole thing away at once—no problem. Cats were horrid, but at least they lived outside in warm weather and had litter boxes. Dogs, on the other hand, drooled, and bit, and got wet and shook themselves everywhere and who knows what else? He had seen _Beethoven_. Not gonna go there.

"Sure. Let's go."

At that exact moment Julie dropped a kernel of popcorn onto the couch cushion and Monk tried his hardest not to scream, biting his hand in order to do so.

Hearing the moan escaping from Monk's throat, Natalie gave him a look that said, _What's up?_

He nodded to the offending piece of popcorn on the couch.

"Julie, pick up that piece of popcorn before Mr. Monk has a heart attack." Natalie said, going into mother mode.

"No!" Monk interjected, "Don't pick it up, you'll just get your buttery fingers on the cushions!"

"Okay… sorry," Mumbled Julie, getting up and moving away from the couch in defeat.

Monk ran quickly to the supply cabinet and returned a few seconds later, returned sporting rubber gloves and holding a dust-buster.


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Note: Thanks for the reviews! They are very much appreciated. Here's the next chapter.**

Entering the building through the back with Natalie, Monk was horrified. There were dogs running around everywhere. Big dogs, little dogs, drooling dogs. Some were off their leashes.

The handlers were even crazier than the dogs. They were sticking their hands in the dog's mouths, letting the dogs lick their faces, one particularly strange-looking woman seemed to be chewing her dog's kibble for him. Monk resisted the urge to vomit.

"Come on, Natalie. Let's go home. These people are nuts."

"They aren't nuts, Mr. Monk," Natalie half-scolded, "They're just a little eccentric. Besides, you're hardly qualified to make that statement."

"I'm not nuts, Natalie!" As Monk spoke, a Labrador ran past, brushing against his leg.

She raised an eyebrow as he overreacted to the stray hair on his pants, shaking his leg in a movement that resembled a seizure. He grabbed her shoulder.

"Wipe," he whimpered miserably.

She handed it to him promptly, "Sure. That's not nuts, Mr. Monk."

"Of course it's not nuts; it's dog hair! It's worse than nuts because it's been on a—on a _dog_." He spat the final word as he wiped at his pants compulsively.

"I probably have fleas now." He whined.

A woman who had been eyeing the detective curiously stepped forward, "I assure you, none of our dogs have fleas here." She said haughtily, stroking the little dog in her arms.

"Oh, he was just joking, weren't you, Mr. Monk?"

Monk was still furiously scrubbing at his pants, and hardly looked up at her as he answered, "No. No I wasn't."

Natalie, desperate to change the subject, knelt down slightly to see the ball of fur in the woman's arms, "What a cute cocker spaniel!" she cooed, "My daughter used to have a dog like that."

The woman looked outraged as she pulled the dog out of Natalie's reach.

"Duke," she began, "happens to be a King Charles Cavalier Spaniel, not a _cocker_. And he's not my dog, he's my canine son." She corrected, her already grating voice growing even higher in pitch as she got angry.

With a final huff of anger, she turned abruptly away and walked up to another handler, whispering something in her ear. The two of them glanced over at Natalie and laughed.

"You're right, Mr. Monk, these people are nuts."

"Did I hear you say Monk?" asked a small woman with bright red hair tentatively, approaching Natalie.

"Yes, that's his name," she explained, pointing to the insane-looking man rubbing his pants to death. Her face lit up, "Are you--?"

"Yes, I'm Shelley Smith. So that's the famous genius detective, huh?" she asked, gesturing towards him.

"Sure is." Answered Natalie, with the proud smile of a mother, "And I'm Natalie Teeger, his assistant."

Monk walked over to them, "Natalie, let's go. I need to change my pants and I don't know if this Shelley person is ever going to show up."

Natalie grinned and nodded at Shelley.

"Who's this?"

"That Shelley person," Answered the woman who seemed to be only moderately bigger than some of the dogs, extending her hand to him and clearing her throat when he didn't take it.

"Um, he doesn't really shake." Natalie answered for him, shrugging her shoulders.

"That's funny. Even my dog shakes." Muttered Shelley and Natalie laughed politely.

"Well, he _did_." She added, getting a far away look in her eyes.

"What happened to him?"

"Well, that's why I called you here. To find out." She said, as if it was obvious.

"Wait," began Natalie, nervously, "Your murder, the one you called us about, that was a… a dog?"

Shelley nodded, oblivious to the fact that they were exchanging looks. "I knew Spanky wasn't a real name." muttered Monk, dejectedly.

"We don't really solve pet murders." Said Natalie.

"Oh, but you can, can't you? It's still murder, I can still pay you, and—" Shelley went on.

"We'll take the case." Monk said immediately.

"You're the cheapest man I've ever met." Natalie whispered, something she often said to him.


End file.
